


A Treasure Greater Than Silver

by hannah_jpg



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: Éomer visits Dol Amroth, and is introduced to Imrahil’s harem. He’s not sure what to think about it.





	A Treasure Greater Than Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Hey ya'll. Even though this is 5 parts I'm posting it all at once. I'm afraid it's going to ruffle some feathers, which I don't particularly want, so I'm just getting it done and over with. That being said, I do hope it's enjoyed. It's not meant as any commentary or anything, just something fun and different.

The whirling colors of Imrahil’s feasting hall dazzled Éomer’s eyes, pummeling him with the sensations of fragrances of unfamiliar food, the twanging of strange instruments, and the scent of burning herbs. They were seated on plush cushions and ate at short tables. It was a new experience for him, but it was not unpleasant. Startling, befuddling, overwhelming—but not unwelcome.

                But rather than try to sort out these sensations and thoughts, Éomer gave in to his friend’s entreaty to relax and enjoy himself. Imrahil and his sons appeared perfectly at ease even in this opulence, and were joking and laughing as they normally did. There was spiced meats and soft cheese, flatbreads and sour yogurt with vegetables. When the sweet course came, nearly everything was dripping in honey; fried bread, baked pastry with nuts, and a boiled dough which Éomer decided was the one item which he did not like. Wine was served generously; a drink made from distilled coastal fruits and spices, with the fine imported grapes from Lossarnach to give it body. He turned his cup over after only one serving; it was very strong indeed.

                “What do you think of this Dol Amrothian hospitality?” Imrahil leaned over to ask, his grin glinting in the light from dozens of suspended lamps.

                “Everything is delicious,” Éomer said with honesty. “And very different than what I am accustomed to. A wondrous cultural experience, to be sure!”

                “I am glad you are content. When we are finished eating, we will be entertained by the woman of my zenana.”

                The Westron word was strange to Éomer. “Zenana?” he asked.

                “The women of my household. Some are related to me by blood, some are concubines and some are servants. They live in separate quarters, in the south wing of the palace.”

                Éomer had yet to tour the famed palace of Dol Amroth, and so was more than a little confused by Imrahil’s words. The women lived separately? But . . . why?

                “You find our ways alien,” Imrahil said, as if reading his thoughts. “So would we find yours. There is no harm in such differences.”

                Éomer nodded to show that he understood, even if he did not necessarily agree. He thought of what Eowyn would say to a separate women’s wing . . . in fact, now that he looked around the feasting hall, he saw that the only women present were servants. A sick sort of feeling made his smile falter then.

                “I will make you an offer.” Imrahil leaned close, now speaking softly so that they would not be overheard. Intrigued, Éomer listened intently. “If you see a woman you like when they join us, she may keep your company during your visit here.”

                He sat, still as a statue, as he tried to process what the prince had just said. Then all at once, he felt a flush creep up the back of his neck. Éomer sputtered, verging on rudeness but not caring, “Take a woman as a _whore_?”

                “No, no. You misunderstand me. A common whore could not dream of the privileges granted to these women, for they do far more than provide bodily pleasures. They are skilled and educated in many ways.”

Éomer squirmed, suddenly feeling cramped at the low table. Imrahil continued,

“The women that dwell here hold lofty positions; strict rules and protocol give them more rights than even common men. It is because of these privileged women that the line of the princes of Dol Amroth has passed unbroken for more than a thousand years.” Even as the prince concluded his defense, the last of the platters were being cleared away, and the silks that draped the room were pushed aside as a crowd of women began to enter.

                Éomer was, truth be told, a bit unhinged by these new notions. Surely Imrahil was guilty of bias towards his system, but there had to be _some_ truth in it. Were these women truly so privileged, while so separate? He watched the women, dazed. They were as vibrant as the room itself, wearing bright reds and blues and purples and greens. Some carried instruments, taking places on low stools. Others began to dance as the soft thrumming of drums and lyres filled the chamber.

                Eowyn certainly would have plenty to say about this.

                “These are the best dancers you will find in Arda,” Imrahil murmured to him. “Really, do not be so quick to dismiss them.”

                Éomer’s shirt collar was feeling tight, and he tugged it away from his neck as he tried to breathe. The chamber now seemed very warm with so many bodies, and his discomfort was increasing. It all seemed almost _wrong_ to him. But as Imrahil had said, there was no harm in it. Only a difference in region and people. Just as the food and decor, which he was accustoming himself to.

                So he watched, reserved but willing to be go along with it. Amrothos, on his other side, was nodding his head along with the strumming music. Éomer glanced over to where the women with instruments sat, further away from the sparkling lights and surrounded by silks and tapestries. It was pleasant music, he decided. Three women were softly drumming, and two held lyres on their laps. The taller one was smiling benignly as she watched the dancers, playing without thought. Then, as if she sensed his eyes on her, she turned.

                The same slate-grey eyes of Imrahil stared back at him. The woman’s brows lifted in surprise, and she inclined her head towards him before diverting her attention elsewhere. Éomer could not look away, however. She was undoubtedly the most attractive of the women; thick black curls that hung loosely down her back, rose-petal lips and now, a pretty pink flush heightening her color.

                In his reverie, he did not notice that Imrahil had seen both him and the woman holding him so enthralled. The prince cleared his throat, and his heart hammering with embarrassment at having been caught, Éomer turned towards his friend.

                “My daughter, Lothíriel,” Imrahil said.

                “Your—? Oh. Oh!”

                But Imrahil was not paying attention to Éomer’s blunder. He was instead gazing at his daughter, who was looking determinedly away as if she knew that she was the topic of their conversation.

                “She manages all the women in my house,” he said. “I would be hard pressed to part with her.”

                Éomer opened his mouth, determined to explain that he had not meant to take her away or anything else of the nature, but he was cut across.

                “She is not for amusement.” Imrahil’s tone had grown hard, and he glared at Éomer with steel in his eyes. “She is for marrying only.”

                “I—I could not marry her!” Éomer blurted. “I could never marry a woman without having spoken to her!”

                The prince was studying him, his mouth set in a hard line. But then it changed into nothing less than a ruthless grin. “Then speak to her,” he said. “I can arrange that.”

                “Oh, but I—”

                “We have a custom in Dol Amroth, which has survived since our elven ancestors.” Imrahil was drumming his fingers on the low table. “If an unmarried man and an unmarried woman lay together consensually, they are, for all intents and purposes, wed.”

                “Wed? That does not apply to your zenana, then.”

                “Not exactly. Again, those women are different. But my daughter is the best of them and so must only have the best.”

                Éomer was feeling enormously out of his depth. It also seemed to him that Imrahil had drawn a very far-fetched conclusion out of Éomer’s interest in Lothíriel. Marry Imrahil’s daughter? He couldn’t.

                Imrahil was now tapping his fingers along with the music, watching his daughter with affection softening his eyes. It was obviously no small thing for him to consider parting with Lothíriel. Éomer probably ought to have flattered, but it was mostly further uncertainty that he was experiencing. His gaze was drawn towards her again, watching the lamplight flicker off of her shimmering violet dress, her elegant profile turned away from him. If he did marry her, she would have to leave Dol Amroth with him at the end of the week.

                He shook his head violently, trying to rid himself of those thoughts. He could not marry her. It was out of the question.

* * *

               “My lord, Prince Imrahil has sent a summons for you.”

                Éomer, in the process of greasing his boots before he turned in for the night, looked up in surprise at the manservant standing in the doorway to his guest chamber. “Summons?” he asked. “For what business?”

                “It is not the prince’s business, sire. You are expected in the west bridal chamber.”

                His boot and brush fell to the ground with a clatter. The servant’s face remained impassive, though Éomer was sure his was not. Shock was making his mind hazy; was this a joke? Imrahil was sending him to a _bridal_ chamber? Then he realized: the prince had said he would arrange for Éomer and Lothíriel to speak. That must be the purpose; though what sort of talking went on in a bridal chamber . . .

                “Sire?”

                Éomer picked up his scattered items, threw the brush onto his bed and tugged the half-polished boot onto his foot. Without thinking about it, somehow he was clearly decided to go along with this . . . whatever it was. He thought he trusted himself enough not to do anything foolish. He was, admittedly, curious of this Lothíriel.

                It was a long walk, following the manservant through the torchlit corridors with nervousness rolling his belly and sharpening his senses. Through the open, pillared walls Éomer could see the bright moon above and a dark sky laced with stars. Far away the waves crashed on the cliffs below.

                The double doors were carved of an unknown wood in swirls of vines and flowers. The servant bowed and left Éomer alone, standing with trepidation as he stared at the doors.

                This was too strange.

                He pushed on the silver knob and entered.

                The chamber was lit by many candles, and a breeze which tasted of salt met Éomer as he stepped through, closing the door behind him. Whitewashed trelliswork led to an open window, through which moonlight shone upon the figure poised on the window seat, her knees tucked to her chest and her gaze on the sea below.

                “H—hello,” Éomer said, voice cracking slightly. He was trying very hard not to look at the bed against the far wall.

                She turned to him, blinking. They regarded each other for a long moment; Éomer swallowing convulsively, and Lothíriel’s lips curving into a smile.

                “Hello,” she said. Her costume was driving him to distraction, sparkling in combined moon and candlelight, it was a beautiful mauve that set off her high color perfectly. The sleeves were split at the shoulders and revealed shapely arms. Smooth dark curls fell down her back as before. Suddenly Éomer realized he was staring, and white-knuckled, he bowed slightly.

                “May I sit with you, princess?”

                Lothíriel nodded her head to the other end of the window seat, curling her feet closer to herself.

                It was narrow to sit on for even a smaller person, and Éomer struggled for several minutes with Lothíriel watching on in amusement. This dampened his humor somewhat, but managed a tight smile when he at last sat back.

                “I am Éomer,” he said to the awkward silence.

                “And I am Lothíriel. Though I suspect we both knew those facts already.” Her smile had broadened, into something too enchanting to be allowed, he thought.

                “Too true,” he admitted. “Er—then . . . I will tell you something you do not know. Anything at all. And if you allow, I will pose an inquiry to you. It will be fair, that way.”

                Her eyes were piercingly grey, inquisitive and thoughtful. And captivating, too; Éomer’s mind was a muddle, he was not entirely sure he could answer anything. “How,” Lothíriel said, her tone mild. “Does Edoras stand on a hill?”

                Éomer opened his mouth, but could not speak for surprise. Of all the questions she could ask . . . “I think I misunderstand your meaning,” he said. “Are you asking how our homes are constructed, or—”

                “No; I am wondering how your buildings do not slide off of the hill in mud or rain.”

                “Oh, er—there are trenches to guide mud and slush down safe paths. The foundations of the buildings are built deep into the earth with a mixture of ash and lime, which is harvested from mines in the White Mountains.”

                Lothíriel was nodding along with his words, her eyes bright and her brows furrowed. “Does the wet earth not prevent the mixture from hardening?” she asked.

                “I confess you are testing me beyond my ken,” Éomer said wryly. “And I wonder at your interest in masonry.”

                She waved an elegant hand casually in the air. “I read a book or two.”

                “On _masonry_?”

                “I may not be allowed outside of the palace walls, but the library is certainly part of it.”

                He chuckled then, and noticed Lothíriel watching him with a pleased satisfaction.

                “Now you may ask me your question,” she said.

                Éomer’s thoughts had not been far from his curiosity, and with the princess’s frankness he was less embarrassed to ask than he expected to be. Carefully he said, “I wish to know what of your life in your father’s zenana.”

                “Of my life?” Her head tilted to the side. “But what of it?”

                “I am interested. Just as you and masonry.”

                There was a twinkle in Lothíriel’s eyes, and she said, “Masonry is only the start of it, my lord. But I shall answer your inquiry as I understand it.

                “My mother was the daughter of a Corsair captain, gifted to my father twenty-three years ago. She was trained by the best instructors in the zenana, and eventually gained my father’s interest. I was born soon after, and as a trueborn princess, given the education and and some privileges which my brothers had.”

                “Your mother—is not your brothers’—”

                “No. Only Elphir and Erchirion share a mother.”

                “Ah.”

                Lothíriel smiled. “There is very little to tell of my upbringing, I suppose. Only that my father is very kind and I have been fortunate.”

                Éomer could agree with this, though his perception of the prince was going to require a thorough reexamination. “So,” he said. “What is this about masonry?”

                “Books can only teach a portion of the world. I would seek a greater part of it, if I may.” There was a growing wistfulness about her expression, and she looked away to the dark sea below. Éomer could not remove his gaze from her. “I have often read,” Lothíriel continued in a soft voice. “Of faraway lands. Minas Tirith, Osgiliath . . . Edoras, Helm’s Deep, Rivendell and Dale. But I was forced to reconcile myself at a young age that I would never see them anywhere but my mind’s eye. I read because I can do little else.”

                He was more than a little taken aback by her confidence; he was sure he had not earned such honesty. But he admired it, all the same. And he wished to see her smile again. “There is little which you are missing,” Éomer said casually. “Minas Tirith is always clouded by the smoke of hearth fires and Edoras is often so windblown that one’s skin burns.”

                Just as he had hoped. Lothíriel turned back to him with her lovely smile brightening her face. “It would be worth it to see them, I think,” she said. “But perhaps now I may feel less sorry for myself.”

                “Good! Self-pity is generally wasted, I find.”

                “How very wise!”

                “Yes, I am. I mean—yes, it is!” Éomer’s old habit of teasing banter, so often practiced with Eowyn, had been out of use for many years. But it was so easy to slip into it . . . especially as Lothíriel’s trill of laughter made his blood pulse in a sudden surge. Then he recalled, painfully, the insinuation of the princess and her position, of women in Imrahil’s house, of the prince’s offer to him . . .

                “What is it?” She was too perspective. She had noticed the shift in his expression.

                Éomer managed a tight smile, and reached out to take her hand. It felt natural, and Lothíriel showed no discomfort from the intimacy. In fact, he realized that she had shown no fear at all. But surely she would know of the politics of their meeting tonight . . . He wondered about her. He wanted to know more.

                “I am only curious,” he said. “Surely not all the women of the zenana give birth to princes and princesses.”

                “Oh, certainly not! Only a select few. We all have household duties, and some are married to noblemen and other dignitaries, at my father’s discretion.”

                _Or kings_ , Éomer thought. But rather than voice this, he asked, “And what of your duties?”

                Lothíriel was twirling a black curl between the fingers of her free hand, though her eyes never left his. “I manage all the women of the zenana,” she said. “I give them their duties. I see that all the girls and women are receiving their education. If they misbehave, I am the unfortunate one that must judge them, though I have overseers to assist. And . . . I teach lessons.”

                “Lessons? Of what?”

                “Many things—geography and topography, basics of Sindarin and Quenya, some poetry . . . “

                Éomer could not help feeling amazed. “Is that not all of the lessons? Do you not share the glory of teaching?”

                She began to laugh again. “That is only a part of it! I certainly do share the glory of teaching, as you put it, though I may argue it can be a worse chore than sweeping the rushes.”

                “Do you write poetry, then?”

                Lothíriel appeared slightly confused at this; she blinked slowly before responding, “Everyone writes poetry.”

                “Er—all the women? Or everyone in the palace? Your father?”

                “Everyone . . . everyone. Or so I was led to believe.” An apologetic smile flitted on her face. “I suppose now I must haphazard a guess that only everyone in the palace writes poetry. I see nothing unusual in it.”

                “It seems unusual to me,” Éomer said. An abrupt urge to tangle his hand in her hair surfaced, and he quashed it quickly, speaking over his self-consciousness, “Though . . . in Rohan, nearly everyone composes songs or ditties of some sort. We communicate through music, mostly; the people rarely write.”

                “Really! That is fascinating. I am afraid despite my years of music lessons, my voice is nothing more than pitchy at best.”

                Éomer laughed. “Surely not! A princess as accomplished as you _must_ sing well.”

                “You are teasing me! Perhaps I should demonstrate my singing then, and your bleeding ears will be punishment for your disbelief.”

                “And are you taught to flirt as well?” He dared to ask.

                Her brows lifted loftily. “Surely you do not presume that my charm is nothing but _natural_.”

                “You are seeking for a compliment—I am afraid you must seek harder!” Éomer was pleased to see the hint of a flush in her cheeks, a beautiful shade of red spreading underneath her skin. Dimples surfaced as she smiled, rendering her now completely charming beyond reason.

                “I know very little of flirting,” she admitted. “I have known no men apart from my brothers and father. If this is, as you say, flirting, I suspect that you are to be complemented rather than myself.”

                His mind was pulled from pleasant musings. “You do not know—any men?”

                She shook her head. “I have seen many from a distance, but they are forbidden to speak with me without my father’s permission.”

                “I find that strange.”

                “It is the way of my life, and the life of all the women I know.” Lothíriel’s chin lifted slightly, marking a stronger resemblance to her proud father. “An isolated life, I admit. The zenana is a lonely place, for all the women in it.”

                “And you must live in the same state forever?”

                “The only ways to leave the zenana are marriage and death.”

                Éomer rankled; it seemed utterly wrong, akin to imprisonment—and looking at this beautiful woman’s expression, filled with hesitation following her admission, only made the injustice worse.

                “Do not misunderstand me,” she said quietly. “I am not asking you for anything. Your company is enough.”

                He paused, her meaning unclear.

                “I know why you are here,” Lothíriel added. “I know my father’s ambitions. He is the cleverest man I know; even with my limited knowledge I can surmise he is one of the wisest men in Gondor. But whatever his wishes—I would not have you bow to them unwillingly.”

                Éomer did not know what to say.

                “It is not such a bad life, really,” she said, her solemn mood passing as she yawned into her hand. How much time had passed? “We have the best food from the kitchens, the best silks from the market . . . ”

                “Well, as long as you have that,” he said sardonically.

                “And now I think I must seek my rest—it is rather late . . . ”

                He glanced around the room again; the bed had not moved. “Here?” he asked. His throat felt uncomfortably dry, perhaps from so much talking.

                Lothíriel smiled, through her eyes were tired as she swung her feet over the seat and onto the floor. “Why not?”

                “Er—may I help you?”

                She had placed her hands on the seat, ready to raise herself, but at Éomer’s words she paused. “Help?” she asked.

                “You . . . er—to the bed.”

                “Yes, I suppose you may.”

                It was a strange impulse that had made him offer this, but it was too late to retract. Éomer stood, and hesitating only for a half-second, lifted Lothíriel into his arms. She gasped in surprise, and then laughed.

                “I am sure I have not been carried since I was a small child,” she said. “How unusual! But I thank you, all the same.”

                “You are most welcome.”

                He elbowed past several draping silks and laid her on the top of the bed. He turned to leave, but she caught his hand.

                “You may stay, but only if you wish,” Lothíriel said. “I will not be offended if you have decided that I will not suit. And . . . nor will my father.”

                Éomer had decided nothing of the sort. He was less confused regarding the matter than he had earlier, but a wariness towards such a sudden and lasting commitment was giving him pause. He liked Lothíriel, quite a bit. But marriage ought to take far more consideration . . .

                “I will stay,” he said. “I could not navigate back to my rooms without assistance anyway.”

                Her smile, though slight from sleepiness, made his heart thud uncomfortably. He walked around the end of the bed and its hangings, feeling awkward at this point of having made a decision that could prove disastrous, and sat on the other edge. Éomer wondered what Imrahil would say, what he expected . . . Did staying the night in the same chamber as the princess still count the same towards a marriage? It hurt his head to consider these unknown customs. He _could_ leave, if he felt it was not worth the risk of binding himself to her without intending to. He glanced at her form, an aching tug in his gut giving him pause. If he could marry her according to the dictates which _he_ considered normal, with a courtship and betrothal, would he pursue her?

. . . Yes, he would.

And there was his decision.

Off came his boots, in with a deep breath, and he lay down stiffly. Lothíriel had not moved, nor did he dare to. It would be a long night, indeed . . .

* * *

Éomer woke with a start, his heart hammering as he forgot where he was. Then a slow remembrance of the night before sunk into him, and he viewed the silk hangings around him with much less confusion. His heart thudded pleasantly, with a surge of fondness for the woman he saw curled up next to him.

Lothíriel was facing away from him, her thick black hair curled on the pillow behind her. Her dress was somewhat skewed from sleep, and the naked skin at her back and shoulders was tempting; oh so tempting, in the faint dawn light which filtered through the trelliswork. He could hear her soft breaths as she slumbered on, and saw the slight rise and fall of her shoulders.

Éomer lifted a hand and slowly; hesitatingly, touched the creamy golden skin at the back of her neck. She did not stir, and he brushed his knuckles along her spine, savoring the softness he felt. His hand looked too large, too brutish against her beauty, but he did not want to stop. Then he felt her tremble underneath his touch, and her breath caught suddenly. Éomer drew his hand away, at once embarrassed for having woken her and for laying his hand on a woman without her having invited him. Lothíriel had stiffened where she lay, and lifting his head slightly, he saw that her hand was clenched into a fist. As if aware of his scrutiny, she turned towards him. Her eyes were astonishingly bright, blinking at him in both confusion and wonder. She shifted slightly so that she was facing him, half underneath him and placing the tips of her fingers on his chest as she said, with yearning in her voice,

“Éomer . . . I—”

That was invitation enough for him.

                He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and kissing her as a starving man would feast on forbidden fruit. There was a whimper of pleasure in her throat, and he felt her hand creep up the back of his neck and wind into his loose hair. She tasted of honey and sweetness, and she melted into him willingly—nay, fervently. Éomer recalled her words of the night before, _“The zenana is a lonely place . . .”_

Then in that remembrance, his promise to Imrahil resurfaced. If he made love to her, she would be his wife, and he her husband. This thought did not alarm him so much now, as they had spoken and he was sure that they enjoyed one another’s company. And Lothíriel had shown no fear, no hesitation towards him; she knew the marriage customs perfectly . . .

Éomer drew away from her, rather reluctantly. She seemed none too pleased about it, either, and tried to pull him closer again. But he had to speak, and nuzzled his nose against hers as he felt her hand traverse his shoulders and back. That made it rather difficult. “Lothíriel, Lothíriel . . .” he murmured, and then the rest of his words lodged in his throat.

“If you are going to ask,” she whispered back. “Do not.”

                “But—”

                “I know exactly what is going to happen.”

                He looked into her eyes, her beautiful grey eyes, and saw in them her sincerity, and her desperation. He swallowed. “It will not be easy, sweet one. Leaving your father. Being my wife.”

                “No role in life is easy. But this . . . this is easy, Éomer.”

                She was too right. He wanted nothing more than to sink into her embrace and to love her, love her. She had given more than a mere invitation, she was begging.

                Éomer groaned and buried his face in her neck, breathing in deeply her scent of sweet musk and some exotic, unfamiliar flora. Lothíriel’s leg was snaking around his, tangled and hampered by her skirt but no less enthused. He groaned, unable to stop his hips from nudging into her side. Her breathing was hitched as he began to kiss her neck, the taste of her skin branding itself on his tongue. His hands slid around her back, feeling the curving shape of her spine even as she arched against him, searching for however this blasted dress could be removed. No luck.

                Her fingers had trailed around his neck, leaving goose pimples in their wake, and he felt her knuckles against his throat as she tugged on the laces of his tunic. Surely she would be feeling the frantic beat of his heart . . . and how strongly she was affecting him. Éomer traced a thumb along her jaw, forgetting the buttons, concentrated wholly on the taste of her tongue against his. He mimicked her own trail, the pads of his fingers lingering on the supple skin of her bare collarbone.

                A strangled gasp broke the spell, and Éomer lifted his head with concern. But Lothíriel was not looking at him; her eyes were fastened downward, where her trembling fingers were attempting to unfasten the buttons on the front of her bodice. In fact, he noticed that her entire body was shaking underneath his; if the color of her cheeks was any indication, it was not from fear, but from pleasure . . .

                “Let me,” he said gently, and pushed her hands away. He saw the rise and fall of her throat as she swallowed, staring at him with a hungry expression. Éomer lifted himself onto his elbows, smiling despite the agony of his position and the slowness he knew would be necessary. “I do not suppose that you have read a book or two on this sort of thing, too?”

                “Y—yes. But right now I can remember none of it.” Lothíriel was biting her lip, and Éomer used all his force of will to keep his gaze on her rather than the revelations of her unbuttoned bodice, sliding it away and tossing it onto the floor. The silken underdress she wore was sheer enough; he could see the swells of her breasts. “I—I think,” she added shakily. “It was written that the act does not hurt, if a woman loses her maidenhead to a good man.”

                He almost choked. “Perhaps it will not be so easy, then,” Éomer managed to say.

                Her brows furrowed as she regarded him, pushing away the loose hair from his face. The touch was so tender that he could only blink in response. “I trust you,” Lothíriel said. “If that is your worry.”

                “I am not sure if I trust myself.”

                “But do you trust _me_?”

                Her expression was so frank, so like the princess he had come to know already that Éomer said, “Yes, I do,” before he fully understood what he was saying.

                Lothíriel’s lips, pink and already slightly swollen, parted into a smile that revealed brilliant teeth, and he felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “I think we will be quite fine, then,” she murmured. “Éomer, please . . . please love me.”

                His pulsing blood, ignored during their short exchange, shot fire through his veins at her words. Her plea. And with it, the last dregs of his apprehension were pushed away. Éomer’s mouth found hers again, coaxing open her lips. Lothíriel was straining against him again, his tunic balled into her clenched fists as she tried to pull him closer. Her grip was not gentle, and in her eagerness she pinched some of his skin, and he winced, pulling away.

                “Ouch,” he said.

                “Oh!” Her eyes flew open. “I am sorry.”

                “Do not be—it is just punishment. Clearly I should have shed my tunic already.”

                Lothíriel giggled then, releasing him from her iron clutch. Éomer sat back on his haunches, tugging the tunic over his head and tossing onto the floor. When he had shaken back his messed hair, he saw the languid form of the princess, lying stretched on the bed, so close that their legs brushed against each other. Her eyes were traversing his bare chest, with a bright, sly sort of interest.

                “What?” he asked, voice hoarse and unable to form a complete sentence. Her frock was _very_ thin.

                “This is a new sight for me,” she said. “I am interested.”

                “Of course you are. And are you quite finished, or may I continue making love to you?”

                Lothíriel met his eyes fearlessly. “You may continue.”

                Éomer saw no buttons or ties on her underdress, and so lifted the hem from where it was tangled at her knees. His hand brushed along her skin, and he savored the softness of it, so unlike himself, so bewitching in its beauty. Lothíriel had sat forward, and she lifted her arms over his head and he divested her of her frock entirely and flinging it aside. The blush on her cheeks was no longer ordinary; it was one of arousal, not embarrassment. For a woman who had never known a man, she was surprisingly bold, unabashed . . .

                He brought her face to his with his hand on the back of her neck, tilting her head upwards and kissing her fiercely. Her hands were already exploring the fine hair on his chest, exploring what must be so strange to her . . . That he felt control slipping from him with her simple touch was strange to him. He gripped her slight shoulders, feeling the movement of her muscles as his hands slipped downwards along the length of her back and onto her hips, where his fingers dug into the soft flesh before tipping her back into the pillows. Éomer heard her husky intake of breath, his stomach rolling with pleasure as his desire surged, dazing his mind. He sunk into her welcoming arms, feeling her legs around his hips as he reflexively pressed against her heat. Somewhere between their lips her heightening moans and his own panting were joined. Her hands were sweeping along his back.

                Éomer pulled away from their kissing, smiling broadly at Lothíriel as she whimpered in protest. “Do not stop!” she pleaded.

                “I won’t.” He slid a hand upwards to rest on her breast. Her grey eyes widened, and then a languid smile formed on her lips as she arched herself into his touch. Bema, as if he really needed any other encouragement!

                He savored the taste and feel of her breasts, his mind still hazy but not blind Lothíriel’s response. Her breathing was ragged, desperately so, and her hand was clutched in his hair. She was squirming underneath his weight, but not, he guessed, from discomfort.

                Éomer raised his head, kissing her lightly on the lips. Her eyes were wide, gazing up at him. “You have not decided to stop now, I hope?” Lothíriel asked, her brows pinching together anxiously.

                “Not yet. I have decided that my breeches have grown too uncomfortable to continue.”

                “Oh! Well then—they had better go.”

                His fingers shook slightly as he untangled the laces, and suddenly the princess’s rather adorable trembling was not so laughable. Unfortunately Éomer was forced to stand on rather numb legs to wrench off the breeches, amusing Lothíriel greatly, before he returned to the bed and to her embrace.

                “No lengthy admiration this time?” he asked, nipping at her smiling lips.

                “Perhaps later.”

                There was a desperation now, and urgency and a knowing that they could not very well stop now. Until that moment Éomer supposed they could have ceased, he could have reconsidered . . . but arousal aside, he did not wish to, for he loved her _._ And it must have begun the night before, even if he had tried to quash it. He murmured the words into her mouth, unsure what language they emerged as. Lothíriel’s fervency did not fade as they reached this moment, and he parted her knees easily to settle himself between them.

                The morning light had brightened the chamber considerably, casting a red glow through the hanging silks. It was growing warm, too. Open windows were seeming far less wise, though a salty breeze stirred the canopy around them and brought little relief. There was sweat trickling down Éomer’s back, which he knew Lothíriel would find repulsive . . . if she noticed at all. Her eyes had fluttered shut early on, and though she met his lovemaking with a great deal of eagerness, she seemed completely oblivious to their surroundings. Éomer would have felt the same, but if he gave in too much to the impassioned woman beneath him, he would be spent before she could experience the same pleasure.

                It may have been an hour later or even a mere minute; Lothíriel’s breathing caught and she tensed around him, Éomer managed perhaps a minute before before he shuddered and collapsed into her embrace.

                “I am impressed,” he murmured into her hair some time later.

                “By what?” she asked. Her fingers were tracing patterns on his bare back, sending shivers up his spine.

                “You, sweet one.”

                “And why is that?”

                Éomer lifted his head, grinning lazily at his flushed princess. Her gaze was utterly content, and she returned his smile as he stroked away damp strands of hair from her forehead and cheeks. “If I was to list all the reasons, we would be here all day,” he said. “Let it suffice for now that you learned your books very well.”

                Lothíriel laughed, a throaty sound, and she leaned over to kiss him quickly. “I think the books are not to thank for this, rather I have had an excellent teacher! He taught me a great deal without a single lecture. In fact, it all felt so natural that I did not even realize I was being schooled.”

                “Oh, is that so? And here I thought you had known no men apart from your family.”

                She pinched his arm for the teasing, and though Éomer laughed loudly, he had certainly deserved it. He rolled himself off of Lothíriel, lying on his back and gazing at the silk hangings above them without any interest. Before he could even begin to muse on the drastic change his life had just taken, he felt her nudge his side, and he stretched out an arm so that she could nestle close, despite the nearly-overbearing warmth. There were so many things he wished to say to her that he struggled to speak at all.

                “My studies were certainly right about one thing,” Lothíriel said quietly, gazing off into the middle distance while her fingers stroked along his beard. “It did not hurt, because you are a good man.”

                This bemused Éomer, especially considering what he thought of himself for both making love to and marrying a woman without having even known her for an entire day. ‘Weak,’ came immediately to mind. Then on its tail, fortunate beyond imagining. It took no sage to know that the woman he held in his arms was the greatest treasure he would ever know.

                “Come,” she said after a long moment, stretching forward lazily as she pulled herself into a sitting position. “Let us bathe.”

                “Bathe?”

                “Certainly! The bathhouses of Dol Amroth are widely renowned. Here in the palace, special chambers such as this one have their own bathing rooms. They are quite nice.”

                Éomer would follow Lothíriel wherever she took him, even a dung pile, but a bath sounded quite wonderful. She led him by the hand to a closed door to the right of the bed which he had not noticed before, pausing only to give a hanging bellpull a tug before unlatching the door to allow it to swing open.

                Polished white marble, glinting in the mid-morning sun, making him blink from brightness. A wide open terrace led to a stunning vista of the shimmering blue sea far below, and allowed the warble of songbirds to enter and echo in the huge room. It was dominated by a large square dip in the floor, sized to hold perhaps a dozen people and tiled with a swirly mosaic of blues and greens. Lothíriel crouched down near the wall, where two silver taps were mounted, twisting both of them until twin gushes of water spilled into the dip, which he decided must function as a bathtub. Indeed, as Éomer took in these strange sights, Lothíriel stepped into the dip and sat on a built-in bench, flashing him a smile.

                “Come sit!” she said. “If you have yet to experience a Dol Amrothian bath, you are certainly in for a pleasurable experience!”

                Éomer did as she bade, and was surprised to feel that from one of the taps was flowing hot water, and from the other, cold.

                “There are two cisterns accessible from the corridor,” Lothíriel told him. “When the bridal chamber is in use, servants keep hot stones in one of them.”

                “Very clever. Though a great deal of work, I should think.”

                Her smile was bright as her shoulder nudged his. “The bridal chamber is rarely in use.”

                “Then I had better make full use of this famous bath!”

                Lothíriel seemed all too eager to teach him how to indulge properly, fetching from a nearby stone table a few stoppered bottles of soaps and oils. Though he initially refused her offer to wash his hair, thinking it far too degrading for a princess to have to wait on him, she firmly disregarded his protests, sitting on the floor above him with her knees around his shoulders. She dipped a large bowl into the water and poured it over his head several several times until he was wet through and spluttering. Éomer, amused by her cheerful humming as she did this, could not help but relax under her ministrations. Her feet were tucked under his forearms, absently stroking him with her bare toes. It was utterly endearing.

                “You may stand now,” she said some time later, after rinsing his hair of the lathery soap she had used. “I suspect the rest of you requires the same treatment.”

                Éomer felt odd to stand, thigh-deep in a marble bath, with a beautiful woman rubbing soft soap all over his body with her bare hands. Eventually the oddity faded; Lothíriel showed no awkwardness in this action, and it was altogether too pleasant not to enjoy. Perhaps _too_ pleasant.

                “Go on and submerge yourself,” she told him. She rinsed her hands in the water, glancing up at him with her grey eyes lingering on certain members of his body, which had reacted exactly as expected. Éomer refused to blush, and gave her a severe stare as he crouched down until the water met his neck.

                “It happens,” he said. “Especially when you touch it, sweet one.”

                “I said nothing.” Lothíriel stood and wandered over to a closeted shelf, from which she produced several drying cloths. She remained as nude as she had been most of the morning, showing no shame, and Éomer stayed under the water a little longer. He wondered if she knew how intensely she affected him.

                She was willing to dry him as well, but he had to draw the line somewhere. Following a brief tug-o-war, he directed her sternly towards the water as he towelled the moisture from his skin. Lothíriel had lowered herself into his deserted position, and Éomer sat on his towel to straddle her shoulders, glancing at the row of extravagant soaps askance.

                “You do not have to—” she began to say, but he interrupted.

                “I am going to, so hush! Er—after you tell me which soap to use.”

                Laughing, she turned to point at a bottle of jade. “That for my hair,” she said. “And the soap on the silver plate for elsewhere.”

                “My, someone is presumptuous,” Éomer teased, using the same bowl to pour the warm water onto Lothíriel’s thick tresses. As it turned out, he rather enjoyed sinking his fingers into her locks, and her neck went slack as he rubbed the soap into her scalp. The silence in the bathing chamber made all of his private thoughts; some welcome and some not so, crowd closer upon his consciousness.

                He had a wife.

                In this intimate companionship, he did not fear the notion any longer. In fact, if they could always be so easy and pleasant with one another, he would welcome a future with this woman. Éomer’s stomach rolled with exhilaration, and perhaps a bit of hunger. How long had it been since last night’s supper? He pushed that thought away, squeezing the last of the rinse water from Lothíriel’s hair as she hummed with contentment.

                “Do not hesitate to tell me if my humble work is not to your satisfaction, my lady,” Éomer said, bending over to kiss the top of her sweet-smelling head. “I should hate to think I have lowered your standards.”

                “Oh! It was lovely, Éomer; and it feels perfectly good to me. I shan’t complain.” Lothíriel had tilted her face upwards, and he saw from upside-down the broad smile on it. He leaned a bit further forward, unable to resist the opportunity, and kiss her lips, lingering.

“I am happy to hear it,” he murmured. “Shall I wash the rest of you now?”

“I hoped you might.”

It was some time before they were finished with their bathing; there was a great deal to Dol Amrothian bathing and the princess explained it all with extraordinary patience. Éomer was pleased to participate, and to reciprocate her careful demonstrations upon him. Though he _was_ disgruntled at the messiness of the plait he managed to put in her hair; he was unused to braiding anyone else’s hair but his own. Lothíriel, of course, had plaited his back expertly, and he was grateful to have his hair out of the way so that he could stop pushing it back to see her better.

Her bright teeth flashed at him as she smiled ruefully. She was sprawled in his lap, facing him and gently combing his beard with a mother-of-pearl comb and a small amount of special oil which she explained would keep it soft. “We have no special implements for beards; I am afraid this is the best I can do,” she said. “Most men here are clean-shaven, or at least so I assume.”

“It is more than I normally do,” Éomer admitted, pushing loose hairs from her bare shoulders. “I have few thoughts for such niceties; I have travelled too much of late.”

Lothíriel placed the comb on the marble floor, smoothing down his beard with her hands on either side of his face, which he decided he preferred to the combing. Her smile was wistful, perhaps a bit sad. He wondered why, if it was due to his pitiable travelling or realizing that she would be leaving with him.

“Well!” he said, striving for cheerfulness. “I shan’t be finished travelling anytime soon, it seems; I have much to show my bride.”

This brightened her expression considerably, and her eyes began to sparkle. “Truly? Do you mean it?”

“Certainly! Where should we go? The Dimholt Pass? The Falls of Rauros? Minas Morgul?”

“Perhaps not the last—oh, but everything else? Could we?”

Éomer chuckled, and planted a kiss on her nose. “You do not need to continue asking, sweet one. You have my word.”

She began to laugh, the enchanting sound full of joy. He took the chance to slide his hands along her slim waist and to trace his thumbs in circles on the softness of her neck; Lothíriel was just too irresistible. He would not wish to endeavor such a tour of Arda by himself, but if it brought his bride happiness he would enjoy every moment. That much he felt sure of. Éomer pulled her face towards him and captured her laughing mouth in a kiss, and sudden silence coursed through the bathing chamber.

He would never tire of kissing her, of that he was also certain. Heat grew quickly between them, until they broke apart, each gasping in ragged breaths, Lothíriel’s poor braid was even more mussed. Éomer cast it a guilty glance and tried to smooth it, and she pulled his hand away.

“Do not fret over it,” she said, her lips swollen and smiling. “No one will see me but you.”

A surge, this one of possessiveness, made Éomer swallow against his rising desire. “Then I do not mind it at all,” he said hoarsely, and leaned forward to bury his head in her neck, kissing it slowly, temptingly.

“I think,” Lothíriel said slowly, her slender fingers resting on the back of his head as he saw to her pleasure. “That our breakfast will have arrived by now.”

“Mmm?”

“They ought to have set up in the—the bridal chamber,” she explained. There was a catch in her voice, which he liked to hear. “I—I rang for it to be delivered while we, er, bathed.”

                “Efficient.” Éomer lifted his head, grinning at her darkened, hungry eyes. Though not hungry for food, he would wager. “Shall we eat first, then?”

                “We had better. Or it will be quite cold.”

* * *

                Sitting so close to one another that Éomer could feel her curves pressed against him even through their dressing gowns, made eating slightly difficult. Though they sat on the ground in Dol Amrothian custom, the pillows were plump and plentiful. The chamber had been cleaned while they had bathed; the bedsheets changed and neatly made, the silk curtains to the pillared window tied back to allow sunshine and the sea breeze to permeate the room with fresh air. Éomer quite liked how the sunlight shined in Lothíriel’s eyes; there were sea-green flecks he had not seen before. If he was staring at her, he did not care, as as far as he could tell, neither did she.

                They feasted together on the repast—they were both apparently quite hungry that morning. He felt certain it was nearly noonday, and the meal seemed more luncheon than breakfast. There was a spicy lamb stew, grilled vegetables, herbed flatbreads and a frothy drink made from yogurt and a local fruit Éomer had never before tasted, but quite liked. For dessert there were the same offerings as the night before. He was looking forward to the honey-soaked pastry with nuts once more, but once his plate was clear of the savory, Lothíriel stopped him before he could partake of the sweets.

                “There is a superstition in Dol Amroth,” she said, shaking back the sleeve of her shift and picking up a slice of the dessert with her fingers. “That if a man and a woman feed honey to one another, they will be together for the rest of their lives. Sweets made with honey are served at every wedding.”

                Éomer held her gaze, and obediently ate the pastry she offered. Lothíriel was smiling, and before she could draw her hand away he grasped her wrist, and then cleaned every droplet of honey from her skin with his tongue. By the time he finished, she was red in the face and laughing.

                “Unnecessary! But endearing. Go on then; I would like some myself.”

                She was far less solemn about her own consumption of the dessert, but Éomer did not mind. Her flippant teasing was delightful; he had not taken her for a woman of such light-heartedness . . . it made his own heart sing. He could not wait to introduce her to his sister; Éowyn would adore her, and he hoped that Lothíriel would reciprocate. He imagined she would. And of course his other friends; Éothain, Elfhelm, Aragorn, Merry and Pippin . . . His bride was simply too charming for him to even consider that they would not take to her. Assuming, of course, she did not resist being in the company of so many men . . . how would she adjust? As Queen she would be surrounded by men constantly. There was little choice in the matter.

                “What is it?” Lothíriel asked. She was studying him intently, and Éomer realized his thoughts must have shown on his face.

                “I apologize for woolgathering,” he told her, tilting her chin upwards and kissing her quickly. Her lips tasted of honey. “I was only wondering how you would fare as Queen of the Mark.”

                She blinked at him, once, twice, and then furrowed her brows. “Oh,” she said. “I . . . I do not know. I suppose I did not think that . . . well, I have been silly, haven’t I?”

                “Silly? I shouldn’t think so!”

                “But I have,” Lothíriel said earnestly. “I have been too focused on you that I have forgotten anything else. The indescribably silly whims of . . . of, well, me.” There was a flush in her cheeks, but this one was embarrassed, as if she was hiding something. Éomer stroked her chin, not a little worried.

                “And what else is there?” he asked, and attempting a reassuring smile. “For all I know, we are the only people in Arda. If there is a world outside, I want no part of it. Not yet.”

                Her expression relaxed, and there was a return of her now familiar spark to her bright eyes. A dimple formed in her cheek. “It is so thoughtful of our meal to simply appear.”

                “Oh, yes. And for the chamber to tidy itself.”

                “I am particularly happy to see the bed made, and to have freshly laundered clothes—” Lothíriel was waving her hand towards the piles of neatly folded but unfamiliar clothing which had been provided for them, which sat on a low bench. Éomer shook his head, however.

                “The clothing is unnecessary,” he said. “A kind thought, but we do not need it at all.”

                “Oh! Oh—I suppose you are right.” She smiled, and he returned it foppishly. “Well Éomer, I think perhaps you should tell me what I will be expected to do as Queen of the Mark. I would not wish to go into it completely blind.”

                Éomer thought for a moment, picking up her plait from where it rested on her breast and stroking it with his thumb. He recalled their conversation from the previous night, and said, “It will be little different than managing the zenana, I suspect; with only a different culture and at a larger scale.” A sudden, sickening realization came to him—did Imrahil need to be told of their marriage? Truthfully, an interview with his new father was a far less attractive option than lingering in this private chamber with his bride. He put the question to Lothíriel immediately, but she showed none of the same concerns, her eyes wrinkling at the corners as she smiled.

                “He knows, Éomer,” she said gently. “The servants will have told him already.”

                “Er—oh. Alright.”

                “Does it bother you?”

                “I suppose not. It is a relief not to tell him myself, actually; that I have snatched his only daughter away with hardly a by-your-leave.”

                “It will not trouble him,” Lothíriel said. “He would not have offered if it did.” Her eyes were open, sincere; Éomer could not help believing her. He pushed the thought of Imrahil away, as well as a brief guilt for his men and guards that were staying at the palace as well. Soldiers would be happy to have food and beds, and were likely challenging the local guards to all sorts of sports. No, he was certain they would be perfectly well.

                “Then let us turn our attention to other matters of queenship,” Éomer said briskly, and stood, helping a bemused Lothíriel to her feet. “Living in the Riddermark will take many skills with which you may not be familiar, I am afraid.”

                “Oh! Really? Perhaps I will have read about—”

                “Not everything can be learned by book,” Éomer’s voice was grave, though he made it so with some difficulty; it was quite a challenge not to laugh at his own cleverness. “Many skills take practice.”

                Lothíriel nodded, meeting his gaze. “Then I will be happy to learn.”

                “Do you ride?”

                “Certainly! I am fortunate that my father arranged for me to have lessons.”

                “But can you ride as well as a Rohir?”

                This gave Lothíriel pause, and she blinked. “I would not know,” she admitted.

                “Then—” Éomer drew her towards the bed, pulling her by her hand until they sat together on it, his bride now all the more amused. “You had best show me.”

                “Show you? But how—”

                He grasped the soft flesh of her hips, half-lifting her so that she sat astride him. Now that his intent was perfectly clear, she burst into trilling laughter, shaking her head.

                “Goodness! I should think that riding a horse and riding a man are completely different!”

                “Consider it a preliminary test,” he murmured, pushing away the folds of her dressing gown and giving his attention to the peak of her breast. “Unless, of course, your books left out certain . . . _information_ on the matter of lovemaking.”

                “N—no,” Lothíriel’s voice wavered, he was pleased to notice. “It was a very detailed book, I assure you.”

                “Hmm. I have never studied the topic myself. Perhaps I am in need of some teaching.”

                Her hands, which had been caressing the hard muscles of his shoulders, paused. Éomer looked up and saw her brows furrowed as she stared at him.

                “You have never studied?” she asked. “But I thought all men—”

                Éomer nipped at her chin, unwilling to be taken out of the heated moment entirely. “I meant that I had never studied it from a book, sweet one.”

                Lothíriel was biting her lip, her expression one of curiosity but also dread. “There have been other women, surely—”

                He picked up one of her hands, deliberately kissing every single fingertip. “I am going to be frank with you, princess,” Éomer said. “I cannot remember any other women at this moment, and I do not wish to. There are no other faces in my mind but yours.”

                Her face softened, though she said gently, “You can tell me, Éomer. I am not afraid of truth.”

                “My Queen, my one and only love . . .” He nuzzled her ear with his nose. “The most beautiful among the beautiful . . .” Éomer did not know where his words were coming from, except that there was a new bright flame of love and affection in his chest. “My springtime, my merry-faced love, my daytime, my sweet, my rose . . . My woman of the beautiful hair, my love of the slanted brow, my love of the grey eyes, full of mischief . . . I will sing your praises always.”

                There was a tenderness in Lothíriel’s eyes now, as she lifted his face and studied his expression. “Why, Éomer! Here I had the impression that you thought poetry rather silly.”

                “You have made me a poet, a lover, a worshipper . . . a husband of faith and devotion. Laughing eyes, faithful heart; the very Queen and blood of my existence.” He could have said more, there was a positive spring inside of him of fondness to this woman. But she lowered her head to capture his lips, and the rest of his words were lost. Impatiently she pushed his robe from his shoulders and downwards, and Éomer felt goose pimples break out across his bare skin at the sudden, cooler air. His fingers dig into the flesh of her buttocks, and she pressed herself closer to him, her own heat matching his own . . .

                Éomer decided some time later that if his bride rode a horse with half as much enthusiasm as she rode him, he would be very jealous indeed. They had not even bothered removing their robes all by the time Lothíriel mounted him, and he happily tangled his hands in her hair as she moved fluidly with the thrusts of his hips. This time their satisfaction came more quickly, and after only a few minutes Éomer collapsed onto his back, exhausted but eyeing the sight of his bride with a great deal of pleasure.

                Lothíriel’s breath was still hitched, and her eyes remained dark with desire as she held his gaze. Her robe had slid down her shoulders in his eagerness to taste her breasts, but still hung loosely, and he grinned. He adored the sight of her flushed cheeks, of her moist lips as she wet them with her tongue.

                “Was it alright?” she asked breathlessly.

                “More than alright,” Éomer said. “A fine rider you are. Though I think you are correct; riding a horse is a much different matter. At least,” he fixed her with a beady stare. “I hope it is.”

                “I find it a great deal more pleasurable, if that is what you mean.” Her eyes were twinkling, and wincing slightly, she alighted from her position and lay down beside him, resting one hand on his naked chest. “I would rather ride you than my mare any day.”

                “I am gratified to hear that.” Éomer picked up her now completely tousled braid, now more rueful than ever. “I will replait your hair, if you like,” he offered.

                “I think I will have to accept; it appears our activities are far more rigorous than my usual studies.”

                “That I am also happy to hear! I would be ashamed to think my bride think me as dull as a tome.”

                “Never!” Lothíriel vowed. “I am finding you far more interesting.”

                “Oh? Do I warrant some scientific study?”

                Her face split into a wide smile, and he stroked her dimple with his thumb; really, she was too endearing . . . “Most likely,” she said. “But I could not conduct the study myself; I find you far too distracting. I would be unable to take notes or to ask questions.”

                “Well,” Éomer said slowly. “I suppose that is for the best. I am not sure I could stand the scrutiny.”

                Lothíriel propped her chin in his chest, gazing up at him with her clear eyes and a small smile. “Perhaps one day,” she said.

                “Perhaps.” He ran his fingers in circles on her back, quite liking the way the bright sunlight made it easy for him to see every bit of her pretty face. Éomer wondered again at his great fortune, though a tugging worry knotted in his stomach. “I . . . I am afraid I am going to disappoint you, sweet one,” he said.

                Her brows lifted. “How so?”

                “Meduseld . . . does not have a library.”

                Lothíriel blinked at him. “Oh, is that all? I already knew that, I—”

                “Read it in a book,” Éomer finished grumpily. “Will you always have the upper hand?”

                “Oh, I suspect not,” she said, her eyes glinting mischievously. “You have only to kiss me, you know, and then I can hardly form a sentence.”

                “I like your sentences. I shall never wish to silence you.”

                Her brows quirked upwards, and he chuckled, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. “Do you know,” she mused. “Now that I may have the opportunity to see the world for myself and through my own eyes, I may not need to delve into the worlds of books so often.”

                “Hmm, yes. And perhaps you can write your own works, too.”

                Lothíriel gave a short laugh. “I doubt that! It is kind of you to think me capable of such a task. But it takes quite a bit of skill to write a book.”

                “I think you capable of anything, sweet one.”

                “Oh, Éomer, be serious!”

                “I am.”

                She gazed at him intently as if trying to discern some sort of teasing, but Éomer was sincere.

                “If you can make me a poet, you can certainly make yourself a scholar,” he told her. “I look forward to what you make of yourself, as Queen and as your own woman.”

                Lothíriel’s lips curved into a smile, a look of utter contentment on her face. “You are absolutely darling, Éomer,” she said. “I have never known it could be so easy to love.”

                The word hung between them for an awkward moment, and then a loud laugh burst from him. “I could say the same about you, sweet one! I think you had my heart the first time you smiled at me.”

                Her gaze grew distant, and her smile wistful. “I knew the moment I saw you,” she said. “In the feasting hall. You were—are—different. You . . . looked at me, just as _me_ , rather than another decoration.” Éomer was threading his fingers through her now loose hair, the plait now entirely gone. The rich scent of the soaps from their earlier baths was muddling his mind a bit, and the warmth and breeze from the open window was lulling him further. He yawned, and felt Lothíriel nestle deeper into his arms.

                “You are not a decoration,” he mumbled, though it had now been several moments since she had spoken. “And . . . we are not required anywhere, are we?”

                Her face was buried in his shoulder, her eyes closed. “No,” he heard her murmur. “Which is just as well. I would not attend anyway.”

                Éomer meant to say something more, perhaps an agreement, but sleep overtook him quickly. There had been little sleep the night before and the chamber was extraordinarily comfortable . . .

* * *

                Éomer realized several things during his and his new wife’s four-day stay in the bridal chamber. The first was that he did not care how much ribalding he was going to receive from his men and his friends from the Mark. Undoubtedly they would think it incredibly odd; both the position of the woman in Imrahil’s house, and that Éomer had married the prince’s own daughter, as it seemed, with very little thought. He probably did deserve teasing, but he also thought it likely that when they saw Lothíriel, they may not be able to speak at all anyways.

                The second was that he could easily follow Lothíriel’s lead in certain matters. She showed no concern whatsoever for either her father, whose reaction to this excessive sojourn Éomer began to worry for, nor even regarding her unexpected future. No matter how many books she read, nothing could fully prepare her to be queen. This Éomer could guess from his experience, though he felt a deep and abiding determination to make the transition as easy as possible for her.

                The final thing he learned was that he could not have chosen a better wife and queen. There had been one afternoon, when Éomer had confided in Lothíriel his anxiety and fear for the Riddermark; its burned farmlands, destroyed houses, and nearly empty grain and food stores. Surprisingly, she brightened at this, and immediately launched into details explanations of what she had read in books on agriculture and treating burned soil and building homes from the ground with such materials as sod to be less labor-intensive. Éomer had heard of sod homes sometime in his life, but he could remember where. He was fairly certain that it was not a common practice in the Riddermark, but felt equally sure that it could solve several problems.

                “As for the food shortage,” Lothíriel said, biting her lip as she thought. They were lounging on the thick rugs on the floor, supported by the silky pillows. Her head was resting on Éomer’s lap as she spoke; “There is little knowledge which I can contribute; I am sure the experience of your people in matters of practicalities such as foraging far surpasses my own.”

                “Hmm,” Éomer said. He was almost feeling too languid to think. Rousing himself slightly, he continued, “But whatever knowledge you have to share, I am sure it will be welcome. Although we have lived in the Mark for many generations, no one can claim to know everything.”

                She turned her head to face him, her now-familiar, bright smile causing his heart to skip a beat. “You are in danger of making me become too enthusiastic,” Lothíriel said, and reached over to twirl some of his golden hair between her fingers. “Likely when I arrive in Rohan, your people will wish me gone, as some sort of foreign invader come to change all their ways and traditions.”

                “Nonsense! They shall love you as much as I do. Well—” A moment’s thought made him retract this. “Perhaps not as much as _I_ do, but half as much will suffice.”

                “And I shall be more than satisfied.” She leaned forward to kiss him then, and it was quite a while before they had an intelligent conversation again.

                At last, the evening before Éomer had planned to leave Dol Amroth, he finally admitted that they could not linger any longer. They dressed slowly, in the clothing which had been left for them on that first day which had remained clean and folded since then. There had been one more bath, one last afternoon spent together doing nothing more than enjoying one another’s company. It was with a great deal of nostalgia and fondness that Éomer left the bridal chamber; he had seen no other rooms for the past four days and he was certain he would never forget the time they had spent in them.

                Without any rush, Éomer took his finely-dressed bride on his arm with an affectionate smile and a pat on her hand, and they walked the corridors. Supper was over, and they would stay that night in his guest chamber. As they meandered, Lothíriel pointed out many places or sights which they passed that she remembered from some part of her child, or which had some sort of significance. It was reasonably interesting, but Éomer was far more enchanted by Lothíriel, and the light and passion in her eyes which reflected the torchlight of the corridors.

                Somehow they ended up at the door to Imrahil’s study, and a nervousness which he had been ignoring over the last days swelled in his stomach. Lothíriel squeezed his arm, probably sensing his anxiety, and gave him a small smile before she lifted a fist and knocked on the door.

                They were bidden to enter, and so they did. Imrahil’s study was a massive room supported by marble pillars, with the dim vista of the sea far below the open terrace. Many candelabras were lit around the chamber, which suffused it with a golden glow. Imrahil was sitting at a desk large enough for four, his youngest son standing behind him as they read a document together.

                “I thought I might see you tonight,” Imrahil said mildly, putting his parchment aside and favoring them with a smile. Amrothos’s greeting was no more or less than a smirk. “Are you still intending to depart tomorrow?”

                “We are,” Éomer said.

                “I suspected as much.” The prince gestured towards Amrothos to leave, and he did so, passing his sister on his way and tweaking her chin. “Sit,” Imrahil said to Éomer and Lothíriel, and they took a pair of oaken chairs on the right side of the desk. Lothíriel spread her silver skirts daintily, looking composed as ever. Éomer, who had not appreciated Amrothos’s behavior, felt less charitable.

                “Am I the first to offer my best wishes?” Imrahil asked, surveying them with level eyes as he leaned back in his seat.

                “Yes, Father. We thank you.” Lothíriel inclined her head.

                “Excellent, excellent. Neither of you could have married better I think; then again, I am biased in favor of both my daughter and my sworn-son.” The prince chuckled at this. “But let us leave that well enough alone. Lothíriel, I have already arranged your belongings to be packed and prepared to depart with you tomorrow.”

                Éomer glanced at her, wondering what she would say, but she said nothing; her eyes were glassy as she blinked at her father. He reached for her hand immediately, and covered it with his own.

                Imrahil’s voice had softened. “We will miss you, of course,” he said, and cleared his throat, his eyes not leaving his daughter. “I will be hard-pressed to find another woman to take charge of the zenana. But that is my concern; not yours. I want you to be happy, Lothíriel.”

                “Oh, Father—of course I will be!”

                He nodded, and then turned his piercing attention to Éomer. “I have also included Lothíriel’s dowry,” he said. “Two dozen trunks of gold and silver coins, twelve trunks of fine Belfalas silk, and a large satchel of pearls. Oh, and several caravans of foodstuffs; preserves, grain, seeds and cuttings.”

                Éomer’s mouth fell open slightly, and embarrassed for his reaction, he snapped it shut. “That is unnecessary,” he managed to say. “I bound myself to her with no thought of a dowry. Her love is a greater treasure than any silver or gold.”

                Imrahil regarded him for a long moment, a satisfied glint in his grey eyes. “Good,” he said gruffly. “If you thought any differently, I wouldn’t send you with the money.”

                “Father, you are incorrigible,” Lothíriel said, smiling now; her sadness seemed to have been resolved. “Éomer does not know you are teasing, I think.”

                “Well, he shall have to accustom himself to it, now that he has you.”

                The two shared a secret grin, and Éomer felt like an intruder. And, for the first time, guilt for taking Lothíriel away from her family so hastily. “Will you visit us, Father?” she asked.

                “Oh, naturally, naturally. I may even bring your brothers. If Éomer agrees to such an invasion, that is.”

                “Any family of Lothíriel’s is my own,” Éomer said. “Even Amrothos.”

                Imrahil’s booming laugh echoed in the study. “Good! That is all the business we have then, I should think. We may say our farewells tomorrow. I will see that your brothers are there, too; yes, even Amrothos.”

                They were dismissed. The prince kissed his daughter, and clasped Éomer’s arm. Éomer was struck at how similar Imrahil’s smirk was to his youngest son’s, and he nearly groaned aloud he and Lothíriel turned into the corridor.

                “This has all happened too perfectly,” he said to his bride ruefully. “I wonder at it.”

                Lothíriel lifted her brows. “Do you mean that you suspect my father arranged for all this?”

                “Yes.”

                “No . . . I do not think he could. He does not command your heart nor mine. But . . . if he did help it along . . .” His wife was smiling upwards at him, and Éomer felt his stomach flip pleasantly. “Well,” Lothíriel said with an elegant shrug. “Who am I to complain?”

                “I suppose you are right,” he said, and stopped their slow progress in the corridor. Lothíriel blinked, but took this in good grace, allowing herself to be drawn into his embrace. “As you may well always be right, my very own Queen . . .” Éomer kissed the tip of her nose, and she wrinkled it. “My everything,” he murmured. “My beloved, my bright moon; my intimate companion, my one and all.” He kissed her first on one cheek, and then the other, whispering into her ear. “Sovereign of all beauties, my life, my gift, my be-all. My elixir of Paradise.” Éomer tilted her head back with one hand, kissing her lips lightly. “My spring, my joy, my glittering day . . .” He kissed her again, this one lingering. “My exquisite one who smiles on and on . . . and on . . .”

 

 


End file.
